Rebirth
by BrightBlueNinjas
Summary: Nobody ever questions where countries come from or why they are born. They just appear—already walking and talking toddlers—and nobody knows why. But I know why. And I will never forget their stories. I will never forget why I gave them their second chance.
1. Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams

_~ * ~ * 1 ~ * ~ *_

_- The Untold Fates of Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams -_

My profession is always something I've found hard to do. While humans are at their weakest, I come and take them away. There are always tears—always. The tears of their families, of their friends that surround them. Or if they are alone, I am the one who sheds tears for them.

In this day and age, I don't even like what I do. There are more horrible and cruel ways for humans to come to me. Year after year weapons of mass destruction are created, and the dead are everywhere, in the desert and in the city. And now it's gotten to a point where some would rather come to me than remain in the world that they've created.

But this time was different, as I came back to the body of a young boy, who looked to be about nineteen years old. While his brother's killer had his gun pointed to the back of the sobbing boy's head, he held onto him. And I could have sworn he saw me. Some do, those rare people who occur in some flat in London or in the Russian wilderness. Who look right at me, not with fear, but with hatred. Through his tears he scowled, he clutched his brother tightly, and he gritted his teeth. He hated me. I couldn't blame him.

I held his brother in my arms, and even in spirit, humans are cold. The boy was clutching the body now, screaming. He was screaming at the world, at his killer, but especially at me—always me, the one who took him from him.

Many things caused my actions. Two things being my knowledge of his past and my own feeling of pity. The final, yet most important, thing would have to be the boy's brother. His choice to mourn his brother in the little time he had left to live.

It was for him that I decided to give his brother that second chance that so few receive. I decided to give him a rebirth as someone else—a whole new body with a chance to never have to die again. My own apology for his fate, my way of saying that I would've changed it if I could. For this way, he'd never have to feel this pain again.

It was for him, you see, that I tell his story.

* * *

There was no place I was more needed than Boston in January 1777. The cold was bitter and harsh, and at least one person died from frostbite in the first week, and more were sure to come. I knew that I probably should've left after I'd taken the soul of the poor human, but a couple of boys caused me to stay.

Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams were the sole reason to why I remained in Boston. The boys were near polar opposites. They were not only brothers, but best friends as well.

Both boys were of British descent, like most people in the colonies. They were raised in the colonies by their mother, who believed that the future was there. Their father, on the other hand, was one of the people most loyal to the crown that I knew and refused to leave his home for those "ingrates".

Even before the Revolution, the boys' father hated the Colonies. Ungrateful pieces of land filled with horrible people who spoke in slurs and did nothing but burn money. Yet the boys' knew no other home, and they knew they would love no other.

On the day the boys' mother died, Matthew was the one who suggested that they go home to their father. Matthew was the one who was closer to the man, while Alfred had gone as far as to change his surname ('Jones' had been his mother's maiden name) so he wouldn't have any connections to him.

Alfred had disagreed to the idea for many reasons. Number one being that they both loved Boston more than they could ever love London, and they both knew it. Number two being that their father meant next to nothing to them now, and they'd rather remain with the memory of their mother than the living emptiness of their father.

Speaking of Alfred, he was the twin that intrigued me the most. His name was written quite clearly on my list, nearing the bottom. Yet he looked healthy and happy; not to mention he was strong as a bull and had plenty of friends. I couldn't think of a single reason he would die anytime soon, despite the war he was too young to enlist in. But my list has never been wrong before.

The boys walked around the town, Alfred opening his mouth and allowing snowflakes to fall on his tongue. Matthew reached out and pinched his tongue, causing Alfred to yelp in pain and scowl at his brother.

"What the hell, Matt?" Alfred grunted.

Matthew giggled. "You were asking for it, sticking your tongue out like that. You're lucky it was just me—a bird could have mistaken in for a worm and tried to bite it off."

"You're an ass," Alfred responded, and the two made their way to the City Council Hall. I followed them inside, looming near the ceiling as the twins sat towards the back.

The citizens of Boston were the angriest at Britain, and that made them the most vicious at war. They were loud and rowdy at the meeting, shouting and waving their fists around at nothing. Once the town mayor walked to the podium, however, all of the people went silent in a matter of seconds.

The mayor smiled at them. "I'm proud to announce to the citizens of Boston that the thirteen colonies have unified and are going to war!"

The people cheered, jumping around in excitement. Alfred leapt out of his seat, throwing his fist in the air and shouted at the top of his lungs. Not one person in the city of Boston was prouder to be a Colonist than Alfred Jones. His brother, however, remained in his seat and clapped politely.

"Settle down, settle down!" the mayor shouted, and the citizens quieted down. The mayor sighed. "Now for the bad news . . . it seems Britain is much more advanced than us in weapons, battle tactics, and overall militia members."

"So they're better than us?" a stray voice called from the crowd.

"To put it bluntly," the mayor bit his lower lip. "Yes."

There was a long, miscarried silence. Then Alfred jumped from his seat and shouted. "_That's bullshit_!"

The room erupted in noise, at people screaming and agreeing with Alfred, though he was now simply acknowledged as "the boy." The mayor began to slam his fist on the podium, yelling at the crowd. "Settle down, settle_down_!"

Unwillingly, the crowd silenced. The mayor shook his head. "Look, we would've sent someone as a spy, but given the circumstances, there's nothing we can do. All thirteen colonies have made it clear that this is war. Why in the world would they let anyone from the colonies come to Britain, much less to the crown?"

The mayor was met with silence, as the townspeople muttered and looked to the floor. They shook their heads and a few individuals looked to be on the verge of tears. Alfred looked around a bit, and then stood up. "My brother and I can go."

Everyone in the room turned to look at the boy with shock, as Matthew stared at him in horror. "Alfred, what are you—?"

"Our father is Sir Henry Williams," he explained, looking around a bit. "He's one of the king's most trusted. Since our mother died recently, we could write to him and say we want to come live in Britain with him."

"Boy, that's suicide," the mayor said. "Your father is a British noble. If you're

discovered, you'd be arrested—no, killed—in a heartbeat."

"There are two of us, though," Alfred pointed out. "If we both go, one of us could distract our father while the other delivers information."

The mayor stared at him, andat that moment, you could hear everyone in the room's heavy breathing. "You would betray not only your father's trust, but your own family for the future of this nation?"

Alfred paused, and then his face broke into a smile. "Of course; give me liberty or give me death!"

The room erupted in applause, and Alfred grinned. Matthew, however, looked terrified. He grabbed Alfred by the collar of his shirt, dragging him outside. As soon as they were outside, Matthew slapped him in the face.

"_Ow_!" Alfred exclaimed, grabbing his cheek. "What was that for?"

"You're a moron!" Matthew exclaimed, and then he covered his mouth with his hand. His voice was light and airy, as it tended to get high-pitched when he got angry. "How could you do that? And why would you drag me down with you?"

"Matt, you wouldn't survive here without me," Alfred scoffed, and Matthew scowled at him. "Don't worry; nothing's going to happen to us. Plus, think about it. If we go through with this, we'll be welcomed back as war heroes. Wouldn't that be awesome?"

Matthew was silent, and Alfred sighed. "If you don't want to, I can go by myself."

"No!" Matthew shook his head, and then smiled at his brother. "You wouldn't survive there without me, and I wouldn't survive here with you. We're a team."

Alfred smirked. "Yeah, buddy. Forever and ever."

* * *

I hate boats. They're the worst form of transportation humanity has thought up of. Boat voyages are long and hard, murder on the senses and next to impossible to get used to. People died on those giant pieces of floating wood left and right. One day someone falls off the side of the boat and drowns, the next day someone gets pneumonia and dies. Once someone got seasick and vomited in his sleep. I hate it when that happens. There is nothing more nerve-wracking than watching someone choke on their own vomit.

Over a span of the next eight weeks, I found I wasn't the only one who hated boats. Alfred spent half of the ride with his head over the side of the ship, barfing out any food he'd eaten in the past few months. The other half he spent complaining about it to his brother.

"This . . . is . . . the worst . . ." Alfred moaned, laying his forehead on the table. Matthew gave him a sad smile, patting him on the back of the head.

"There's only a few more hours until we dock," Matthew said.

"Not . . . soon . . . e . . . e . . . eeeeee . . ." Alfred's cheeks puffed out, and he dashed out of the lower deck and threw his entire head overboard. When the ship docked into the British harbor, Alfred was still hurling over the side of the ship.

Matthew had to practically carry his brother over to the harbor, his brother moving stiffly and sleepily. The boys didn't take much to Britain, as their father told them 'not to worry' in his letter. Still, they packed their clothing and a few prized possessions.

Overall, they doubted their father would give them loads of money and clothes; he hadn't bothered to keep in touch for the last eighteen years anyways.

Neither of the boys was aware of what their father looked like. They didn't know his age, what his voice sounded like, his height, or anything. Henry Williams was nothing more than a stranger they were forced to care about.

"Excuse me," Matthew said, reaching out and tapping on the shoulder of man who was casually walking by the harbor. "Do you know where we can find Sir Henry Williams? We're his sons."

"You two are Williams' children? You mean the . . ." the man made a face of complete disgust, looking them up and down. " . . ._Colonists_?"

His tone seemed to be enough to make Alfred swallow his sickness and straighten his posture. He pushed his brother off of him and scowled at the man. "Yes,_sir_, and proud—"

Matthew clamped his hand over Alfred's mouth, and he gave the man a nervous smile. "Not anymore, sir. We left to come live a more . . ._refined_lifestyle, here in Britain."

The man's expression softened. "Ah, yes. Noblemen like yourselves couldn't stand living with those ruffians any longer, I presume?"

"Oh, no," Matthew said, shaking his head as if he'd been horribly traumatized. "Those people . . . They're savages, I tell you. Savages. And so rude."

The man nodded, and then pointed to one of the biggest homes that could be seen for miles. "Right there, that's Sir Williams' home. Tell your father that Sir Wakefield said 'hello,' would you?"

"Yes, sir," Matthew said, grabbing his brother by the wrist and dragging him off. As soon as they were a good distance away, Alfred yanked his arm away and scowled at his brother.

"What the_hell_were you talking about?" Alfred snapped. "You know as well as I do that the Colonists are good people! 'Savages' my ass—!"

"Not so loud," Matthew hissed, and he tried to grab Alfred's arm a second time, but Alfred jerked his arm away. "We're in a place where people as patriotic as you get killed. You're going to have to start acting like a Loyalist, Al. I know you don't like it, but you signed up for this. Remember?"

Alfred's teeth were gritted, his fists clenched. I myself wasn't sure how long he'd last here. Sure, Matthew loved his home, and he wanted to protect it. But that was it. Alfred, on the other hand, was a true American. He adored it even over his own family—and his life. He loved everything about it. The people, the scenery, the accents, the traditions, the food, everything. It was an intense love and loyalty—something that he would defend with his last breath.

Even at home, Alfred wouldn't shut up about the Colonies declaring independence and gaining their freedom. God knows how long it would take for him to snap in a place like this.

"Yeah, I remember," Alfred muttered, and they climbed up the stone staircase to reach their father's front door. Once they arrived, they didn't knock. Instead, Alfred turned to his brother. "Ok, here's the plan. Firstly, we're going to insist on going to all of Henry's—"

"I wish you wouldn't call him that," Matthew shuddered.

"—meetings. Once we've found out all we can, you're going to distract Henry while I get the letter to Riggs. Got it?"

Rigby "Riggs" Fitzgerald was the only other spy besides the boys, and refused to step foot into British territory. Though he'd been a sailor for years, he was still a Colonist.

Alfred and Matthew had done their best to convince him to help them out, but Riggs was overly paranoid about all of this. No, he wasn't leaving his boat, but he had agreed to deliver information.

"Why do you get the dangerous job?" Matthew asked.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "_You_want the dangerous part?"

". . . No," Matthew muttered. "But I don't want you to get the dangerous part either."

"Ok, then we'll alternate," Alfred shrugged. "Or I'll sneak out at night and deliver it. That way you can go home—"

"Hell no," Matthew said. "Forget about it. You're stuck with me."

Alfred exhaled. "You promise?"

"Forever and ever, bud."

Alfred smiled in response, and then knocked on the door. They waited for a bit, and footsteps could be heard from the other side of the door. The door creaked as a maid opened it, her big green eyes studying them up and down. "May I help you?"

"Yes, uh, I'm Alfred, this is my brother, Matthew," Alfred said, gesturing from himself to his brother, who gave a meek wave in response. "We're, um . . . we're Sir Williams' sons?"

"Ah, yes, of course," she moved aside, allowing them to enter the house.

"Where's our father?" Matthew asked as the maid lead them up the stairs.

"Sir Williams is . . . busy, at the moment," the maid said. "I am to show you to your rooms."

Matthew and Alfred exchanged a glance, and Alfred rolled his eyes in annoyance. The first time they came home in years, and their father didn't even greet them himself. He just locked himself in his office and had his maids show them to their rooms.

As Alfred sat in that big, empty room, he thought to himself. Thought about how easy it was going to be to give this man's secrets over to the country that he hated. How easy it was going to be to betray him. Alfred knew that he wasn't even going to bat an eye.

He didn't know the man, but he doubted Sir Henry Williams had changed one bit.

* * *

_He doesn't need a table fit for thirty people_, Alfred thought as he sat down at the said table, with Sir Williams all the way on the other side of the table as they ate. It was taking all of Alfred's self-control not to look up and scowl at him._I doubt that goddamn hermit even_knows_thirty people._

"Enjoying your dinner, boys?" their father asked. He did look and sound like a British noble, with a voice dripping with a thick British accent and a powdered face. Not a crazy wig though, much to Alfred's disappointment.

Matthew nodded. "It's very good, thank you, sir."

With a fork in his mouth, Alfred shrugged. "Yeah, thanks."

Sir Williams narrowed his eyes at his oldest son, and Alfred couldn't help but flinch. "Alfred, slow down."

Alfred looked up. "Pardon?"

"You're eating like a wild animal," Sir Williams scoffed, picking up a spoon. "You're not starving. Try eating like a gentleman for once, will you? Belly in, chest out. Don't slouch over your food like that."

Alfred stared at the man for a good long while. How would_he_know if he was starving or not? He hadn't been there for the last eighteen years of his life. Alfred was tempted to throw his silverware over his shoulder and just eat it all with his hands, but Matthew saw that coming. The blond boy quickly shook his head, mouthing 'Colonies' at his brother.

With a sigh, Alfred straightened his posture and smiled at the nobleman. "I'm sorry, Father. It won't happen again."

Sir Williams muttered something, returning his attention to his soup. Alfred took a sip of the soup in the bowl in front of him and gagged. It tasted like dishwater. So far, most of the food in England had displeased Alfred, but Matthew seemed fine with it.

"So," Alfred dabbed his mouth with a napkin, pushing the bowl farther away from him. "What do you do for a living?"

His father looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "I'm a nobleman—an officer of the state. Speaking of which," the man straightened his posture, and beamed at the boys. "I have a meeting today, whereas Britain_himself_will be joining us to discuss the war. I was hoping you two would sit in on it?"

Alfred's face broke out into a smile. He was making this_easy_on them. "Would you? That would be wonderful!"

Now, Alfred didn't notice that his father looked genuinely happy with pleasing his sons. He was happy about the smiles on their faces and their hushed, excited whispering. I felt a twinge of pity, for a moment, for their father. He truly did want to be their father once more, and the only thought on Alfred's mind was how easy it was going to be to betray him.

Once their supper ended, their father insisted that they change into more formal clothing; saying that they were "much too old to be dressing like boys."

Alfred studied himself in the mirror and scowled. He looked like a damn_Loyalist_. The neck around his suit was stiff and ended near his cheeks, and he had to fold them down just to make them bearable. He ran a comb through his dark hair, and it only stuck back up again. No doubt his father was going to throw another fit about it.

"I hate this," Alfred grunted, trying to get his hair to stay in place with no luck.

"We probably won't be doing this for long," Matthew said. "I mean, how long can the war last for, anyways? We've already declared independence and all."

Alfred didn't say anything, and Matthew took that as a good enough answer. As soon as they were dressed in more_proper_attire, they were allowed to sit in the dining room until the rest of the guests arrived.

The clock struck seven, and a wave of British noblemen entered the house, chattering in accents Alfred had trouble keeping up with and talking about God-knows-what. Their father didn't introduce them to any of them, but if anybody asked who they were, he would simply say "these are my sons, Alfred and Matthew."

The only one he introduced them to was the personification of Britain itself, a blond man with a permanent look of distaste on his face. His eyes were a piercing shade of green, and the look on his face said he hated the planet and everyone on it. It wasn't his facial expression that Alfred paid attention to, however—it was his_eyebrows_. They were huge, bushy, black, and took of most of his forehead.

"Alfred, Matthew," their father gestured from them to Britain. "This is Britain, say 'hello,' now."

_Can't he do something about those?_Alfred thought as he shook his hand, not taking his eyes off of the man's eyebrows._I'm sure he could cut them or something._

"It's rude to stare," Britain said.

"Eyebrows," Alfred muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing!" Alfred regrouped quickly, taking a step back and beaming at him. "It's a, uh, honor to meet you, sir!"

"Your accent," Britain said, eyeing Alfred skeptically. "It sounds oddly . . . familiar. Where are you from, boy?"

"Boston," Alfred answered, and every British man in the room simultaneously shuddered. "But I was born in London."

"Right," Britain muttered, taking his seat at the table. Alfred didn't like his tone. He didn't like_Britain_, period. He was so grouchy and it didn't make sense. Yeah, his eyebrows looked like squirrel tails, but that didn't mean he had to act so sourly about life. "Alright, men, report any information you have on the matter."

One of the men—Sir Wakefield—cleared his throat. "We just received word that all of the thirteen colonies have officially declared their independence from Britain, sir. This is total war."

Alfred nodded and looked around in awe like the others, as if he hadn't already been told this. Britain looked completely unfazed by this bit of information, however, as if he expected this to happen a long time ago. "Anything else?"

"They don't have any allies," Sir Wakefield continued. "Cornwall has informed me that he plans on sending the entire army over to the colonies. They'll be horribly outnumbered."

"They already are," another nobleman commented, and the men around the table laughed. "What do they plan to do without the king, eh? These Colonists aren't exactly the sharpest tools in the shed."

Alfred clenched his teeth. "They believe they can govern themselves, sir."

The room got quiet, and the man turned to him. "What was that, boy?"

"You asked a question," Alfred looked up. "They think they can elect their leaders and govern themselves."

The room got silent, and then the noblemen burst into laughter. Some went as far as to slam their fists on the table, as if the Colonists' ideas were the funniest things they'd heard in their lifetimes. Britain, on the other hand, still looked completely unaffected by all of this.

"That's enough, Alfred," his father patted him on the back, shaking his head.

One of the noblemen cleared his throat. "_Ahm_, sir, rumor has it that France is considering siding with the Colonists for the war."

The room got silent, and that's when Britain showed signs of distress. His eyebrow twitched, and he looked down, putting his elbows on the table and knitting his hands together and resting his mouth on them. "Does he, now?"

The nobleman swallowed. "N-Nothing is confirmed, sir."

From that point on, the meeting seemed to drone on and on for that next hour-and-a-half. Somewhere in the middle, the meeting stopped being about the war and started being about how Sir Wakefield's wife made the best scones anyone had ever tasted. Until Sir Ramses disagreed and all hell broke loose.

Alfred and Matthew dismissed themselves as soon as the first person left, and their father smiled and allowed them to leaves.

"Kids," he laughed, even though both of his children were eighteen years old and capable of starting families. "You can never get them interested in politics."

Alfred grabbed a quill and piece of scrap paper, quickly writing down the following note:

_General Cornwall plans on sending more soldiers—we'll be outnumbered by a landslide. France wishes to make an alliance with us. The smart thing would be to accept._

"Maybe you should code it," Matthew suggested.

"What, like writing a paragraph and the misspellings spell out the message?" Alfred raised an eyebrow. "This note is going on a merchant ship, Matt."

Matthew shrugged. "I suppose you're right. I'll tell Father you went out for a breath of fresh air, ok?"

Alfred nodded, heading outside and looking around. The harbor wasn't exactly_far_away, per say, but it wasn't close either.

He hid behind the house, watching a couple of soldiers march by. If he got caught, there would be a good chance that they'd find the note. If they found the note, Alfred doubted they would even take him to prison. No, they'd just shoot him on the spot. 'No mercy for spies' was every soldier in the world's motto.

Alfred crept from the shadows of one house to another, easily concealed by gardens and fountains that adorned the big, fancy mansions, slowly making his way down to the harbor. He tried to identify the ship that Riggs was on—he remembered that it was big and brown. Unfortunately, every ship in the harbor fit that description.

"Riggs," Alfred whispered up at the ship, going from wooden vessel to wooden vessel in hope that Riggs would recognize his voice. "Riggs? Riggs? Rig—?"

Alfred stopped as he nearly ran into a boy. He was around twelve years old, with dirty hair and big blue eyes. He had a bandanna on his head, a white one with multiple stains on it. The kid was skinny and frail looking, and he stared at Alfred as if he was thinking the same thing he was.

_He could scream right now and let the guards now that a suspicious person is creeping around the docks_, Alfred thought, not breaking eye contact with the boy._They'd pay him for me—even more when they find out I'm a spy._

Alfred knew he had to act, and he had to act fast. He reached into his back pocket, where he'd grabbed a couple of cookies that he'd been saving for a midnight snack. Though it hurt to do so, he took the cookie out of his pocket and held it out towards the kid. The little boy's eyes widened with yearning, a bit of drool escaping his mouth.

"You want it?" Alfred offered, and the boy nodded. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Peter," the boy responded.

"Well, Peter," Alfred broke the cookie in half, and the boy narrowed his eyes. With a flinch, Alfred handed him the other half. "Now, promise me you won't tell anyone I was here?"

Peter scarfed the cookie down so fast it was gone in a matter of seconds. Alfred couldn't help but stare. His father thought_he_ate like a wild animal? Well, he needed to meet this kid.

The boy was licking the taste of the cookie off of his fingers, and with a face covered in crumbs, he looked up and nodded at Alfred. "I won't tell."

Alfred smiled. "Hey, Peter, can you tell me where I can find Riggs? Well, err, his name's really Rigby Fitzgerald. Do you know him?"

Peter nodded, and Alfred's face brightened. "Could you tell me where I can find him?"

"Yeah, I can," Peter smirked. "For another cookie."

Alfred stiffened. He'd only gotten two. Even so, he was practically in tears as he took the second cookie out of his pocket and gave it to the boy._For the colonies, no sacrifice is too great_, he thought to himself. Peter took his time eating this one, and then pointed to the ship behind him. "He's on that one."

"Yeah, thanks," Alfred said, climbing onto the boat. He'd found Riggs in a matter of minutes, snoring like a drunk in his hammock. Alfred shook him awake, and the man nearly fell out of his bed.

"What—?" he yawned, as Alfred handed him the note. Riggs took a moment to realize what it was, and then he smiled at him. "Thanks, Matthew."

"I'm Alfred,"

"Alfred, right. Thank you, Alfred."

Alfred nodded, and then headed out of the boat. "Hey! Al!"

Alfred turned, and Riggs smiled at him. "It's really brave, what you're doin', you know. You and your brother both."

* * *

For the next year, the cycle of finding information and delivering it to a number of people in the docks became a part of everyday life. At first, they'd have to wait for Riggs to return to London to deliver information. Until gradually, other sailors that supported the US became willing to deliver notes for the twins.

That night, it was Alfred's turn to deliver the note.

_They're targeting battles in North Carolina, New York, and Virginia—especially Virginia. Try to corner them in Yorktown._

As always, the notes were simple, brief, and to the point, with nothing that could possibly give away the spies. The boys often switched off writing a word or section, or used letters from the newspaper that came around every day.

Alfred said his goodbyes to his brother, and then made his way to the door. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard a voice. "Going somewhere?"

Alfred shivered, and then whipped around, smiling at his father. "Just for a walk. I feel like I could use a breath of fresh air, you know?"

His father, on the other hand, didn't look too convinced. He stared at his son for a while longer before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Alfred, it's just . . . Britain suspects a spy among our ranks, you know."

Alfred's heartbeat quickened, yet he slapped a look of shock on his face. "A spy?"

"Yes, I know, hard to believe anyone would betray Great Britain, eh?" Sir Williams said. "I've just been so . . . jumpy, lately. I feel as if it could be anyone."

"It could be, you know," Alfred said. "Just remember to keep your eyes peeled, ok? Matthew and I will see if we can pick up anything when we're in town"

"Alright, glad I can count—" Sir Williams' eyes narrowed, as he looked the piece of paper just barely sticking out of his pocket. "What the hell is that?"

Alfred shoved it down his pocket. "My handkerchief."

"Let me see it."

"You want to see my handkerchief? Father, that's disgusting."

"Give it to me, Alfred._Now_."

"You don't want to see it, it's gross—"

Sir Williams grabbed Alfred by the wrist and yanked him forward with enough force to rip his arm off, snatching the note from his pocket. Alfred yelled and tried to jerk his hand free, shouting that he was hurting him and that he needed to let go. He fought his hardest and knocked the note straight out of his father's hands, yet not in time to stop him from reading the note.

"_You're_the spy?!" he shouted, tightening his grip on Alfred's wrist. Alfred cried out in pain, able to feel a bruise starting to form over that tender spot. "You would betray your own country?"

Alfred looked at his father and scowled. "Britain_isn't my country_."

With a shout of rage, Williams threw Alfred on the ground, and Alfred immediately tended to his wrist. Matthew ran down the stairs, drawn from his reading by all the commotion, seeing Alfred on the floor and his father grabbing his gun.

"What's going on?!" Matthew shouted, attempting to run to his brother, but his father grabbed him by the arm.

"Did you play any part in this foul act?" he hissed, and the color drained from Matthew's face.

"No! No, he didn't!" Alfred shouted. "It was me, all me, ok?! Don't hurt him!"

Williams loaded his gun, pointing it at Alfred, and the boy's mouth clamped shut. No more smart remarks, no more resisting. He was completely silent, nearly petrified with fear. He gulped, his mouth going dry as he moved back a little bit. I'd never seen him so scared, not when delivering illegal notes and performing an act of treason. Maybe because this was a form of direct danger—his own father was holding a loaded gun to his forehead.

_He's not gonna shoot me_, Alfred thought with a gulp, staring up at his father with big, pleading eyes. His breathing was hard, and his father's hands were shaking. He_couldn't_shoot him, right? He couldn't_kill_him. He was his own flesh and blood. Didn't he remember holding him as an infant? Cradling in his arms and reassuring him that the world would be safe as long as he was there. Didn't he love him? He was his father . . . that had to mean_something_, didn't it?

"You . . . you're a traitor," his father growled, and pointed the gun at his head, causing Alfred to flinch. "Do you_know_what the punishment for treason is in this country?"

Alfred swallowed his fear, and straightened his posture. "Yeah, I know. I always knew. But I volunteered anyway. You want to know why?"

Williams didn't say anything; he simply stared at him, his gun shaking in his grip. Alfred swallowed, and then gritted his teeth. "I volunteered because I love the colonies. Truth is I hate this place. And the only thing that's kept me going is the thought that once all this shit is over, I'll be able to go back to Boston and live in a free United States"

His father didn't let him say anymore. He shoved his gun into Alfred's mouth, causing the boy to gag. He stared at his father, and Williams sneered at him. "You get three more words, boy. And it better be an apology."

Alfred sneered. "Go to hell."

_BAM!_

Alfred's body fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, dead in an instant. The gun had been forced back into his mouth, and his father pulled the trigger. The young man lay in a pool of his own blood, his hair stained with crimson. A look of shock was permanently etched on his face, as if even in death he still couldn't believe that his own father had shot him.

I took my list out of my pocket, and Alfred's name seemed to stick out to me even more than before. I checked his name off and made my way to the boy.

Matthew was shrieking now, his eyes pouring with tears as he ran past his father and swept up his brother's body in his arms. Alfred's head was still dripping with blood and his eyes, wide open with shock, would never seen past the age of nineteen. Alfred lay motionless and limp in his brother's arms, who was currently shaking furiously out of shock and anger. "_You killed him! You killed him!_"

"Matthew, put him down," Sir Williams said. "Wipe your eyes; we're going to dump him in the ocean. If anyone asks, he got fell in and drowned. No one will have to know this happened."

"Alfred, Alfred, come on," Matthew whispered, trying to shake Alfred awake. His helplessness was simply heartbreaking, even for me. "Alfred, you promised. You promised."

"Matthew," Sir Williams turned to his remaining son. "For the love of God, he's dead. Just bring him here."

"_No!_" Matthew shouted, clutching his brother closely and staining his hands with Alfred's blood. "_Get away from him, you monster_!"

"Matthew, leave him be—"

"I'm staying with him!" Matthew sobbed. "Forever and ever."

I couldn't wait much longer. My job wouldn't allow it. Not only that, but the soul of that poor boy was currently sitting uselessly in an empty body. I took up Alfred's soul, cradling it in my hands. Cold—humans always were, even in death.

And in that moment, I could've sworn that Matthew saw me. It's not something that's never happened before. A few times, in the Russian wilderness or a flat in London, people have seen me. He looked at me with tear stained eyes that were full of hatred, clutching his brother closely. As if that was going to save him.

"What're you going on about?" Sir Williams asked.

There was a faint name showing up at the bottom of my list. Nearly horrified, I stared at him, silently pleading.

_No. Don't say anything._But no matter how hard I tried, I could never change the fate of a human.

"He lied," Matthew sobbed. "Alfred lied to you—we both did it! I helped him out, we've been sending information to the Colonies for more than a year!"

The name was clear now.

Matthew didn't turn, but he could feel the gun on the back of his head. His father's bottom lip wobbled. "You know the price that is to be paid for treason. I'd rather it done by me than by a stranger."

Matthew's eyes were clenched tightly, still weeping. He wasn't like his brother. Sir Williams clearly adored this boy above the other, and this time it would be much harder. He wasn't rash or stubborn. He feared death and treasured his life in a way Alfred probably wouldn't understand. I closed my eyes, and I only wished Alfred at done the same.

_BAM!_

I watched as Matthew's body fell, lying side-by-side next to his brother. It was hard to witness. I already knew that their father wasn't kidding—he really was going to dump their bodies in the ocean, tell everyone who cared that they fell in and drowned. Though I doubt anyone cared.

Sure, maybe Rigby Fitzgerald and a few others would wonder where they were. But sooner or later, they'd forget about the boys who sent messages to the Colonies. Sooner rather than later, the entire city of London would forget that Sir Henry Williams ever had a pair of twin sons. It's the saddest thing, really, when someone dies and no one cares. When there isn't even a funeral. When their bodies were left to sink and rot in the ocean, eaten away by fish and eventually turning to dust.

I held their souls in my arms, trying to warm them, even slightly. It was no use; I was colder than they were. But I wanted to do_something_. Something for the boy who loved his country so much he was willing to die for it. Something for the boy who loved his brother so much he was willing to die for him.

The idea came to me quickly, and I left that place. And in all truth, I couldn't wait until I got to take Henry Williams' soul.

* * *

Alfred blinked.

Once, twice, three times.

He squinted, and then moved his hands around, trying to feel around for something. He felt sheets, but he didn't remember lying down. He pulled on the sheets, feeling the fabric between his fingers.

Once, twice, three times.

He tried exhaling, then inhaling. Was this heaven? Hell? Limbo? It didn't feel like someplace in between life and death, nor did it feel like the afterlife. But if he was dead—and he was almost one hundred percent sure that he was—he shouldn't be breathing, right? So he tried breathing out.

Once, twice, three times.

He sat up, and then looked around. This didn't look like his father's house, nor did it look like Boston. He saw white fabric walls, a desk covered with all sorts of papers, and he was currently sitting on a cot. He was barefoot, and he could feel the grass underneath his toes.

_Where am I?_Alfred thought. He didn't recognize this place, and frankly, he was scared.

"Sir?" a man opened up the 'doors' of the tent, looking him up and down. "Are you alright? You've been out for a while."

"Am I alright?" Alfred looked up, narrowing his eyes. "Did something happen to me?"

The man—a soldier, by the looks of it—gestured to the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. Alfred decided to investigate by poking it, and felt a sharp pain.

"Did I get_shot_?" Alfred asked, and then he paused. Yeah, he got shot. In the mouth, though, not in the shoulder. And there was no way he survived that.

"Yes, sir," the soldier said. "You've been unconscious for a little more than a day now."

Alfred blinked, and then looked to his hands. He stared at them for a good long while, flexing his fingers. Those weren't his hands. Those were not. His. Hands. That wasn't his skin tone—it wasn't even close. Alfred remembered himself being extremely tan for someone who lived in the frozen terrain that was Boston, and that tan was now gone forever.

"Is there a mirror here?" Alfred asked, jumping to his feet.

The soldier raised an eyebrow. "A mirror, sir?"

"Yeah, yeah, a mirror," he looked around, and then finally jumped forward and stood in front of the tent's only mirror. His jaw dropped, running a hand through his hair.

The face looking back at him didn't even look like him. Well, it did, sort of, but not really. Not to Alfred, that is. For starters, this boy was blond, and Alfred had dark hair. He never looked like that—he kind of always wanted to, though. It was that 'all American' look that the people in Virginia bragged about. Big blue eyes, light skin, blond hair, all wrapped up with high cheekbones and a muscular frame. His eyes were the same as they always were, complete with his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"What the . . .?" Alfred muttered.

"America, are you ok?" the soldier asked.

Alfred's eyes widened. "What did you just call me?"

"Your name?" the soldier looked unsure, and then his eyes darted around a bit. "Well, I mean, would you prefer the United States of America? Because—err—while I fully respect that, it's a bit of a mouthful."

_This is crazy_, Alfred thought, feeling his cheeks._I've lost it. I've gone completely insane._

Alfred blinked at his reflection, and for a second, his reflection seemed more familiar.

_Have I . . .? No, no! My name is Alfred Jones. I live in Boston. I have a brother, his name is Matthew . . ._

His thoughts began to get lost in his head. The life he had—was that even his own life? Or was it just a dream?

_No, no! This isn't right! I know who I am!_

Alfred thought angrily, running a hand through his now-blond hair and tugging on it with enough force to rip it out of his skull.

_This isn't me! I know who I am! My name is Alfred Jones!_

. . . Was it, really?

Was that really his name? Alfred? It sounded almost foreign to him now. Like a word you used to know the definition of. No, no. He was sure of it. He knew who he was. He had to know who he was, right? He wasn't crazy.

_Matthew! Where's Matthew?_

Was his brother ok? He didn't remember. He remembered the taste of metal, he remembered a loud sound, an explosion of pain, and shock. He remembered being shocked and afraid. He remembered Matthew shrieking, he remembered the sound of someone screaming. 'Don't cry.' He remembered the words flashing through his mind before everything went blank.

But what was to become of his brother? He hoped he didn't do something stupid. He hoped that he'd gone on with his life, that he'd given up on whatever it was they were doing. What were they doing again? It was important, Alfred was sure of it.

_I need to find Matthew . . . He won't recognize me like this . . . God, I need to find him!_

. . . But who was he, again? Matthew? He almost didn't remember a Matthew. There were memories, flooding into his head before he could even figure out how to stop them. A meadow, peaceful and warm, lying in the grass and watching the clouds roll by. Two men, they almost looked like him, bickering and he didn't know why. Tears falling down his face as the same man kissed him goodbye, going on a ship and promising he'd be home soon. Months flying by like minutes, waiting and watching the seas.

_No, no, stop! This isn't me!_

Memories of him scowling at the rising prices of tea and sugar. Of the days when he would receive worried letters from that man—Britain, he was sure that was his name—that he would read long after he'd refused to write back. Of laughing and kicking tea over the harbor. Of the day Britain had finally returned, only to scowl and yell at him. Of the day he snapped back. Of the day he told him he hated him. Of Britain's face—of a heartbroken face that would haunt him until the day he died.

_This . . . isn't me . . . I would never . . . This isn't me . . . My name is Alfred Jones . . ._

Memories of the time Britain told him he hated him too. Of the hours he spent in his bed thinking about those words and wondering how much longer he would cry. Of important men sitting around him, of a document that he needed to sign.

_My . . . my name is Alfred Jones . . ._

Memories of muskets and soldiers in blue and white. Of a woman stitching together a flag in red, white, and blue. Of him draping it around his shoulders and laughing, insisting on wearing it into battle. Of blood and cannonfire. Of Britain, wearing red, shouting to his soldiers. Of a bullet hitting him in the shoulder, of blackness taking over his vision, and red staining his uniform.

_. . . My name is Alfred Jones . . . Alfred Jones . . . my name . . ._

"Are you feeling well, sir?" the soldier asked.

Alfred mumbled to himself a bit, shook his head as if getting rid of a bug, and then turned to the soldier with a confused look on his face. "Who's Alfred Jones?"

"I don't know," the soldier said, and then he thought for a moment. "Oh! Jones, he's a spy up in London. No one's heard from him in quite a while, though. Why do you ask?"

He thought for a moment, and then the United States of America turned to the soldier and smiled. "No reason. I just had a bad dream, that's all."


	2. The Awakening of Matthew Williams

Time is a concept that is merely human. It seems to fly to me sometimes—especially when I'm on the job. One moment, I'll be collecting the soul of a man who fell during the Russian Revlution (that Rasputin was a stubborn one). The next, a man trying to re-program an I-Phone has a heart attack, and the time gap leaves me dazed and confused.

Keep that in mind for a moment. I'd kept hold of two souls—both, surprisingly, completely identical. Souls have no features once they're taken from the body; tiny, cold blobs of light in a single, solid color. Both souls were a hazy blue-violet, and impossible to tell apart. The one that turned out to be Alfred (now America, apparently) had been given his second chance mere minutes after his death. This—both his choice of reincarnation and the time he got it—was completely by chance.

And then, once again, time had warped itself to me. By the time Matthew had gotten his chance, it was a very, very differnt time. Yet it felt like only mere seconds to me.

Matthew had awoken with an awful pain in his neck. He was resting his head in his arms, breathing softly and blinking in the light. He'd fallen asleep on a desk. This was odd to him for a number of reasons. Number one, he didn't feel even remotely tired. Number two, he didn't work and he was finished with school. He couldn't think of a single reason as to why he'd fall asleep on a table.

"'Ey, Canada, wake up," a voice said, and Matthew lifted his head up. His neck made an uncomfortable popping sound, and Matthew groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "It isn't like you to fall asleep at meeting, bro. You ok?"

Matthew turned, and his eyes widened.

It was his brother—well, it had to be his brother. But he looked . . . different. Not too different; it wasn't like Matthew couldn't recognize the boy who he had always been side-by-side with. He was blond and lighter skinned than Matthew remembered, with bright blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He offered Matthew a toothy grin, slapping him on the back.

"Al . . . Fred?" Matthew whispered. His voice felt odd—softer, almost inaudible. He almost had to strain it to talk.

"Huh?"

That was when Matthew burst into tears. Loud, ugly tears that poured down his face and left him sobbing. His brother jumped, clenching his teeth and looking around frantically. Matthew only then noticed that there were people around them—notably two people paid them the most attention: a familiar-looking man with gigantic eyebrows and another man with incredibly long, blond hair.

"Whoa, dude! Are you ok?" his brother sat a bit closer to him, putting an arm around him and giving his shoulders a rub. "Do you . . . I don't know, man, do you need a glass of water or soemthing?"

"I—I can't—" Matthew wailed, throwing his arms around his brothers neck and hugging him tightly. His brother flinched, giving him an odd look and hesitantly patting him on the back. "C-can't—you—you're alive—!"

"Yeah, bro, I'm alive," his brother sounded incredibly confused now, giving the other two men a confused look. "Why wouldn't I be . . . ?"

"You—you got shot!" Matthew exclaimed, taking a step back, wiping his eyes on his sleeves. "I saw it happen! Then . . . " he stopped. Then he got shot. He remembered it happening. But . . . he had to be dead. Nobody could survive a bullet to the head, right? So where was this? Heaven, hell, limbo?

"Canada, I'm fine," his brother gave him a skeptic look. "You must've had a nightmare or something—"

"What did you just call me?" Matthew asked, his eyes wide.

"Your name?" his brother raised an eyebrow, taking a timid step back. "Y'know, the thing people call you?"

"_My name is Matthew_!" Matthew shrieked, and when his brother tried to take another step back, Matthew grabbed him by the hand and squeezed it. "You know that! I'm your brother! Your twin brother!"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"We grew up together! I'm your best friend!"

"Uh . . . Canada, we're pretty close and all, but, uh . . . no, we didn't."

Matthew blinked, his grip on his brother's hand loosening. When his brother saw his chance, he jerked his hand back and shoved it in his jacket pocket. ". . . What?"

"Our parents separated when we were three, bro. And mom didn't get you back 'till you were seventeen. I, uh . . . I don't know you all that well, to be honest. I mean, if you want to change something about American-Canadian relations, I'm sure we could work something out with our bosses." his brother shrugged. Mathew blinked, shaking his head. No, no, no, this was all wrong. And why didn't it bother Alfred? Matthew died for him and now his brother was saying that he didn't know him all that well? And what was he talking about, stuff about Canadian-American relations? It didn't add up.

"That's not true, Alfred!" Matthew shouted, attempting to blink away tears. His voice was so sharp that it made his brother jump, staring at him with wide eyes. "I—I'd do anything for you! I love you!"

"Dude, I'm flattered, but—"

"No! No, we're a team!" Matthew jumped forward, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and keeping a tight grip on him. "Forever and ever!"

His brother blinked, staring at him. Matthew's now-violet eyes met his blue ones, as if they'd found some common understanding. And for a moment, Matthew was holding onto Alfred Jones. To the brother he'd loved and grown up with, to the brother he'd do anything for. To his older twin brother and best friend. Alfred's lips moved, and it took a few seconds for them to form words. "Forever and . . . and . . . Matt . . . ?"

Matthew's lips twitched into a small smile, and Alfred shook his head. All it took was a shake of the head, a change of the senses, and he was talking to the United States of America once again. America pushed him off, causing Matthew to stumble. "Look, bro, you're not making any sense. Maybe you're just stressed out or something because I don't know what you're talking about."

"What . . .?" Matthew murmered, taking a timd step back. Why didn't he remember? Did he not know who he was? Matthew would recognize his brother anywhere, and that was him.

. . . But . . . did he, really?

It was starting to slip away from him now. Was that really his best friend. He felt like he didn't know that much about him. What was his favorite color? What type of music did he like to listen to? What was his favorite food? He didn't know . . . he wasn't sure . . .

_No, no! That's not true! _Matthew thought, shaking his head._ I know who I am! I know who he is! My name is Matthew Williams! My mother was from Quebec and my father is from London! I live in Boston! I love bears! My name is Matthew Williams! My name is Matthew Williams! My name . . . my name . . ._

Images were flooding into his head. A childhood in the forest, where he'd ran around freely and danced in the meadows. When a nice man found him and offered to take him home. Of singing songs in French and teddybears with his name on it.

_No, no! That's not my father! My name is Matthew Williams!_

Of waving goodbye to his brother, of a tearful goodbye. Of forgetting him over the years and making some new friends. Of a little girl with dark skin and bows in her hair dancing around the room and asking him to join her. Of the days a man came to their house and shout at his father. Of how his father would always scream back, but he'd be on the verge of tears as soon as he left.

_Stop it! This isn't me! My name is Matthew Williams!_

Of saying goodbye to his father and meeting his brother again. Of the two years he got to be with his brother again, of becoming his friend all over again. Until his brother changed—when he started to talk of rebellion and things that he knew would upset their father. Of the time his brother and his father fought. Of the day his brother tried to get him to run away with him, and when their father considered killing him for trying.

_That . . . that didn't happen! Not to me, at least! I know it didn't . . . it couldn't have . . ._

Of convincing his father to let him go. Of an awkard, somewhat tearful goodbye as he went off to live on his own. Of his brother's frequent visits, talking of expanding and he would laugh and shake his head at all of his wild dreams.

_No! My name . . . my name is . . ._

What was his name, again? It seemed almost foreign now. Did it start with an 'M'? Marcus, maybe? No, no, his name didn't start with an M. Far from it, actually. He didn't know why he even thought it started with an M.

_Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it—_

"_Stop it_!" Matthew shrieked, knotting his hands in his hair and falling to his knees. This couldn't be right! He had to fight it! He knew who he was, he knew what he was doing, and he knew who his family was! He would never forget his brother, let alone all of the years they'd spent together!

. . . then why did he feel like he had?

That was the thought that made Matt faint.

* * *

Matthew had woken some place much more comfortable. Well, still uncomfortable, but better than the table. He was on the floor, resting his head on someone's jacket. His eyes weren't quite open yet—he was too woozy to do that. Even with his lack of vision, he could still hear everyone's chatter just fine.

" . . . what was that about?"

"A panic attack, probably. Did you stress him out, America?"

"Mom, I swear I didn't."

"Stop calling me 'mom', you stupid wanker!"

"Shh, shh, Angleterre. I think he's waking up . . ." there was a pause, and in a gentler tone, the voice said. "Canada, honey, do you feel ok?"

Matthew opened his eyes, seeing a number of people standing around him. His brother wasn't wearing his jacket anymore, the man with the thick eyebrows looked deeply cncerned as the other blond man clutched his hand . . . no, no, he knew who they were . . . America, Britain, and France. He knew who they were; they were practically family, after all.

"What . . . happened?" Matthew whispered.

"You lost your damn mind, that's what happened," America muttered, and Britain jabbed him in the side with his elbow hard enough to make America fall over.

"You fainted, sweetheart," Britain said, putting a hand to Matthew's cheek. "America stressed you out."

"I did not!"

"Are you ok?" France asked, helping Matthew sit up. He looked around—everyone seemed so familiar now. People he'd talked to and done trade with all of his life. Most of them looked either somewhat concerned and mildly interested in the situation. Most of them were muttering amongst themselves, asking each other if they recognized who he was.

Matthew—no, Canada—swallowed, and then nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just . . . panicked."

"No, shit," an albino man, Prussia, muttered just as his much bigger younger brother, Germany, slapped him on the back of the head.

"Don't be rude," Germany snapped, causing Prussia to cringe. The blond man turned to Canada, who still hadn't moved from his place on the floor. "Do you know why you panicked, Canada?"

" . . . No," Canada said, standing up and tossing America his jacket. "I just feel like it was important . . . "

The meeting had jumped back into motion, and once Canada had gotten himself comfortable, I left that place. With the second twin settled into his reincarnation, my conscience was clear. And my interest in Matthew Williams and Alfred Jones was officially over.

* * *

_**Ok, I know this was short, but I felt that Canada's character deserved it. We'll be moving onto different characters next chapter.**_

_** Points to whoever gets the historic reference in the opening paragraph.**_

_** In Shades of Blue,**_

_** Ninja **_


End file.
